Loose and Misshapen Ends
by Ellen Jacee
Summary: Elizabeth and Jack have eloped. Will has met an odd guy who sells chicken and was paid to follow him by a stalker. Who knows what will happen.
1. In Which Will Meets Alex

Maybe You Could Leave, Alex

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of PoC, but I own my plot and my characters.

Ever since Jack and Elizabeth had eloped to the Caiman Islands, William Turner had been in a foul mood. While _they _were sitting on beaches loaded with white sound, dumping martinis down each other's throats until they didn't know who they themselves were, and started pouring martinis down other, rather disturbed, strangers' throats, he, William Turner, was sitting at his particularly boring desk wondering what he could be doing instead of cutting the pages out of the libraries' romance novels (especially the ones involving pirates eloping with the so-called "damsel in distress") and putting loaded pistols in the resulting cavities. In some of the books, he simply added pages where all of the characters got AIDS and died.

Mr. Turner was mentally disturbed, and ought to have seen a psychologist, but Elizabeth was not there to tell him that.

Then again, Elizabeth might have recommended he see a very certain psychologist, by the name of Jack Sparrow, and with that, Will might have puked. Yes, Jack Sparrow was a psychologist. He had an office in London with mahogany paneling and a little brass plaque on the door that said, "Ph.D. in Psychology, Jack Sparrow." Beneath that, it said, "please knock."

Once in the office, there was a nice receptionist who, the majority of the time, was there to say, "I apologize, but Mr. Sparrow will not be back for a while, and the next open spot is in about three years," which was generally true, because Jack was generally not there.

In fact, he'd nearly had to throw his entire career in psychology (including the PhD) down the drain, because he'd burst in on a waiting client after a stressful week at sea in full pirate gear, shouting "Rum! Rum! I need… Rum!" Fortunately, however, the client merely never came back again.

At the office, Sparrow always kept a barrel or two of rum, and oftentimes, the toddler children would play on the barrels while their parents were getting therapy.

But Jack Sparrow was now in the Caiman Islands with Elizabeth, which didn't suit Mr. Turner too well at all.

"Dammit." Will slammed the novel he was presently working on shut, bored with the proceedings.

"Dude, you _so_ need a job." A form emerged from the shadows, immediately walking over to the shades and pulling them up, exposing the sun.

"Help! Help! I'm blinded!" Turner flinched and dove under his desk without a second thought, then voicing his second opinion. "And who the hell are you?" It seemed the perfect position had been found under the desk, for William was sitting cross-legged, frowning at the newcomer. "I think I've met you before…"

"Uh, yeah, dude… I sell chicken – you know? In the market place? And what's your problem? Are you like, one of those creepy people with that weird disease? Oh, yeah, I'm Alex."

Will muttered under his breath, "stalker."

"Dude, I am _so_ not a stalker. But seriously, why were you putting those guns in those books? That's what I call obsessive compulsive behavior." He looked around, scrunching up his nose at the layers of dust that covered everything but the desk. Will himself harbored one of the deeper layers of scudge.

"Would you particularly mind leaving?" Will complained, pulling one of the library books down to his level and opening the cover to reveal one of the nicer pistols he'd "donated" to the library.

"Dude, I am _so_ not going to pull a stunt. Someone paid me to follow you, and dude, you are so totally pathetic – I had to help somehow." He held out two fingers, and William Turner shrunk further under the desk and gripped the gun harder. Was it some sort of gang symbol? Or worse – was Alex a magician? He shuddered at the thought.

"I'm warning you…"

"Dude, what are you? Like, old? This means _peace._ Gosh, what's wrong with you… you seriously need a job. Or a psychologist." Alex raised his eyebrows at Turner's obvious ignorance, and ignorance of the fact that he was ignorant.

Turner shrunk even further into the shelter of the desk. "Not a psychologist. Anything else."

Alex made a hand gesture as if to say "whatever" and stated, "Okay, whatever, just, dude, I have an opening. You could help me sell chicken."

Will felt faint. Since when was he a chicken-selling aficionado? Did he _look_ like a chicken selling aficionado? And besides, he didn't need a job. He'd quit working as a blacksmith when his uncle had died and given all of his money to charity. This wouldn't have helped at all, but since, Will _was_ charity, and his uncle was the donor, he got special privileges and a pension.

Charity was corrupt in these days. In fact, it's debatable that charity was or ever will be fair.

"I refuse to sell chicken." William squinted suspiciously, then glared at Alex, daring him to oppose.

"Okay, dude, lighten up. What _can_ you do?" The tone he set suggested his dubiousness that Will could do anything well whatsoever.

"Er… uh…"

"C'mon, gosh, dude, I was only paid to watch you for an hour."

"I was a blacksmith five years ago…" Mr. Turner trailed off, hanging his head ashamedly, Alex staring at him. Oddly, though, the pistol's barrel was still pointed in Alex's general direction, and it was being gripped _very_ tightly.

"Like, did you make, like, horse-shoes?" Alex's voice held obvious scorn.

"No, I roasted marshmallows."

"Seriously, dude, marshmallows ROCK."

"What the - ? Of course I didn't. I made swords. Like the one the 'Commodore' has, you know? I made that one."

Alex's mouth dropped open in awe. "Dude, are you, like, serious? 'Cause if you are, you are so, like, famous. What's your name?"

Mimicking Alex, William said, "I am _so_ not famous, and the name's William – Turner, dude. And if you screw that up," he reverted to his traditional dialect, "I will hunt you down. Or pay someone to do it for me."

"Kay, chill." Alex went into a state of deep thought, if that was even possible for him.

"It would be nice if you would leave?" Will begged. "I was about to sit down to tea…"

"Cool, dude, thank you _so_ much for the invitation. I was on the verge of star-ving." Alex pulled out a brass stopwatch painted tackily with a pink flower and flipped it open. "That so rocks; I can stay for, like, hours, dude!"


	2. In Which Crumpets Are Moldy

Disclaimer: Je n'ai pas PoC, et je deteste toi. Bon jour, mes amis.

"Dude, I can like, so help you clean this dump up." He glanced around the once-fine home that now looked like a disaster area, with dust, books, and tools covering every surface.

"It is not a dump."

Alex just glanced at him disbelievingly. "Ok, dude, just where are we going to eat? Did I mention that I was, like, starving?"

Just then, a large thump, coming from the front door, disturbed a great deal of dust, not to mention the floor. Another thump, then a long cracking sound came, with a shout of –

"Timber…" Will rushed to the doorway to see Jack Sparrow in full gear standing there watching the door, arms held out in the traditional drunk stance. Elizabeth was smiling giddily behind him. "Oh, sorry about the door, mate. I'll get some 'o me lads to fix it up…" Will grimaced.

"No big." The door was shattered on the floor. This was one of the reasons Will disliked Jack. Last time it had been a window, and the time before that it had been a fire that managed to decimate the kitchen. Even though Jack had promised both times to get him or his crew to fix it all up, the only one who ever helped Will at all with these comings was the receptionist who got rather bored sitting at work all day to no avail.

"Dude, you look, like, so cool." Alex entered the melee.

Jack who had looked slightly sorry about the door (mind you, _very_ slightly), immediately mellowed when Alex entered the room, and, impersonating Alex (which just about everyone had a habit of doing), said, "Dude," he swaggered in the flamboyant fashion in which he'd won Elizabeth's heart, "I'm, like, _so_ glad you like it."

The dust had settled, mostly, anyway, and Will didn't know what to do. He already had one uninvited guest, and he didn't have enough crumpets for everyone. In truth, the only food he had in bulk enough to feed everyone was pinto beans.

Sparrow suddenly stood straighter. "Oh, I forget my manners. Martini, anyone?" He held the glass, filled to the brim with a green frothy liquid and some fancy salt lacing the edge of the glass, "No?" without looking to see if anyone had responded, he downed the glass in a gulp.

"Jack…" Elizabeth gave him a warning glance.

"Love, none of them wanted any."

"But Jack, I did." She stood there, looking hurt and pouting.

"Really? Oh, well, love, we can just get you some rum, and it'll be fine… you know…" Jack fidgeted nervously.

"JACK! You know how evil rum is! How could you even suggest such a thing? You remember what I said on that island! I meant it too! I would like," she quieted down, "a martini."

"Well, love, I'm sure young William here has some rum… I mean, martini mix." he glanced pleadingly at Will. "Doesn't he?"

Will shook his head. "Sorry, I only have Chuck Shaw. And pinto beans."

Stroking Elizabeth's hair in a soothing (yet disgusting to any unfortunate soul who happened to look unto this scene) manner, Jack Sparrow whispered stealthily to Will. "What's Chuck Shaw?"

"Charles Shaw. Cheap wine."

"Oh. What are pinto beans?" The whisper was comically loud.

"Uh…"

"Nevermind. It's not relevant." Then, louder, Jack continued to Elizabeth. "But Will has wine, love. It's very nice wine, that's been aged a long time, and I'm sure it would rival any martini ever made."

Will stared at Jack, then shook his head. So be it. William Turner thought he'd never do something like this in his life, but he turned around, and motioned Alex to the parlor, where they had previously been sitting. He would have shut the door in the faces of Jack Sparrow and Elizabeth, but alas, the door was presently out of action, as, Will thought, it deserved to be, considering most doors only went out of action at death. He shouted back at the couple, "The wine's in the cellar," and tapped Alex on the shoulder, who jumped around.

"Want to go somewhere where there isn't enough dust to kill you, and where we can get a bit of privacy?" He couldn't believe he was offering _Alex_, of all people, this opportunity. Alex nodded understandingly. William thought about how surprising people could be.

For example, Jack Sparrow. He'd thought Jack was a disturbing vagabond who was evil before he got to know him. But that wasn't the best example, as he still though Jack was a disturbing, evil vagabond. Alex, on the other hand, seemed to be an insensitive, yuppie stalker at first, yet Alex, who Will didn't even really know, was the one Will was inviting to lunch.

"Have anywhere in mind?" Alex actually sounded serious.

"Definitely."

Thirty minutes later, William Turner and his fellow, Alex, were sitting at the coffee table in Sparrow's psychology office.

"Would you like a crumpet?" Will held out the pastry that looked like one of those toupees that looked like a small furry animal had just crawled up on the top of your head and died. "It still tastes rather good." Alex glanced at it despairingly, then checked the box for the expiration date.

"Dude, this, like, expired two weeks ago."

Turner swallowed loudly and froze, disgustedly throwing the remainder of the pastry at the receptionist who was cowering under her desk, for some reason. "I was wondering about the little green specks, but they can't have been toxic…?"

"Oh, don't worry, dude, a little mold won't kill you."

"Mold…?" Will felt faint, not for the first time today. "Are you saying that the little green dots – not to mention the blue ones – were _mold?_ Don't answer that." Walking over and picking up the half-eaten crumpet, he shoved it down his gullet, "I vosh 'ungry." He chewed. "Now, you were saying?"

"It was moldy."

"Eeeww…" Turner spat out all the remaining food in his mouth on the floor. "That's gross."

Odd how Alex was now the ultimate authority on everything.

Ignoring Will, Alex turned to the receptionist. "Do you have, like, coffee? We seriously need coffee." He rummaged around the room, and stumbled into the barrels, which held rum.

Needless to say, they fell apart. Considering how long Jack had been away, he'd neglected to reinforce the boards (or hire someone to do it for him), so they'd rotted into a state of decrepti disrepair. The rum became a purple stain on the white carpeted floor.

The receptionist grabbed a teapot in horror and shoved it at Alex. "Here. It's coffee."

"No thank you. I would like some-"

"Don't say it."

"Rum."

"Take the freaking coffee, you bastard! Foutre le comp! C'est ma profession, et tu es bete!" she rambled in French. "Que vous etes des anes!" Luckily, Will nor Alex spoke French.

(Dear reader, I consider this lucky for many reasons. One of them is the fact that our dear, rather polite, receptionist, was screaming f-off to the two men and calling them rather large, rude donkeys if you grasp my meaning. Needless to say, most people do not appreciate being treated this way. Odd how everything sounds so pretty in French.)

"Okay, lady, chill. I'll take coffee." Then, to Will, he whispered through the corner of his mouth. "Something is so wrong with her, dude."

"Yeah, seriously." Will pretended to look a different direction, then muttered back to Alex. "You sure she doesn't have tea? I don't like coffee."

"YOU KNOW, I CAN HEAR EVERY WORD YOU'VE SAID!" She quieted down. "And I wouldn't give you a tea bag for thirty guineas, not to mention a mug or hot water." She sat primly at her desk, her chin up, the caked makeup falling off of her face in chunks.

It was then that Will decided that Alex and he needed to eat elsewhere if they were ever going to eat or have tea at all. Preferably, somewhere with fresh crumpets, and some nice, caffeinated (pardon sp) Earl Grey tea, with a sprig of rosemary, and sugar, and cream. For some reason, Will felt in need of this sort of thing right now, partially because his home was lacking of a front door, and he'd been living off of pinto beans and Charles Shaw wine for the last two weeks, not to mention that fact that Jack Sparrow, and Elizabeth, Will's crush, were probably making out in his cellar over cheap wine.

Author's note: Thank you Fallon for reviewing (lol), and to Mera Sparrow, yes this is to be continued. I am grateful that you find it funny, though this chapter probably was disappointing. Please continue! To be continued! And to Kristi, if you read this: You are in the upcoming chapters. Your name will be Kristi Bergner, and you will be a stalker.


	3. In Which Johannes is Praised

**AN: Sorry this took so long. And I feel like a failure; this isn't funny at all compared to the other two. Anyway, to the important stuff: I now have an account on and even though none of you really like original stuff, probably, I would appreciate it if you read my story about Gwen. But that's asking a bit too much from a failed author. I would also like opinions on a Mediator fanfic: I'm writing one, and it's very pro-Paul, b/c I'm ignoring Twilight and etc. Paul is in rehab at a small school, and its about this girl who's his mentor and bla bla. Yes, it'll probably be a romance, eventually, if I ever start. So, good typical plot? Eh? Now please read… la dee dah… there's another note at the end.**

Will and Alex were sitting calmly at the local Subway. It was a nice Subway, the blue-and-green-and-yellow painted sign on the front depicting "Ye Olde Subwaye." Alex had originally recommended it, and everyone there seemed to know him.

Will didn't want to know why. He wasn't going to speak. This was creepy.

"Uh… dudes, we'll need, like, crumpets, some lemonade, rum… oh, and some tea." He whispered loudly to the waiter. "And make the tea alcoholic." He nodded at Will. "He needs it."

This was going too far. In fact, forget that – all of this was going too far. "I do _not_ want alcoholic tea."

"Sir, this is a bar. Your tea has to be alcoholic, or we'll have to throw you out."

"This is a Subway. And what about his lemonade?"

"Alcoholic."

"You're kidding."

"Would you like a margarita, sir?"

"Goodbye." Will made a move to leave, but Alex held him to the seat. The hired help to the restaurant gathered round, milling, as if waiting for Alex's word. Dismissing them, he leaned in to Will.

"Trust me. Trust everyone who works here. Swear to me. Now." Will, needless to say, was confused. Alex's odd drawl, his mannerisms, all of it had fallen away to reveal a serious side of him… but why the masquerade in the first place?

Will concluded that he didn't have the whole story.

In fact, he concluded, he knew very little. Very very little. He squinted his eyes at Alex, and thought hard. Finally, he came to a conclusion, as most are wont to do when they are concluding.

"You don't sell chicken, do you?"

"No, I don't," Alex honestly replied. "Instead, I - "

"It doesn't matter what you do instead, so long as you don't work for Verizon. I hate Verizon. But what would you have done if I had accepted that job offer? You don't know I didn't want it, and was just scared to take it from a raving lunatic who made weird alien signs at me that supposedly mean peace."

"It's not an alien sign, and you didn't, so what does it matter?"

"What would you have done if I'd taken the job?"

"You weren't going to."

"How do you know?"

"Alright, alright…I would have…danced nude around a purple fire?" Alex sat there as Will grumbled.

"Shut up," Will muttered. "Seriously, though?"

"Well, I - "

"Alex, I want that job. I want to sell chicken at the market place. Now. So, where's your stall?"

"God, isn't he an idiot?" Alex glanced at one of the men milling around him despairingly. The nodded the affirmative. "He wants to sell chicken." The small congregation laughed appreciatively, but not genuinely. "Well, men, shall we humor him? Did he not ask for chicken?"

There was a short scramble to obey Alex, and soon they were all gone. Will moaned into his hands. "Why me? What have I ever done?"

Alex's reply was simple and to the point: "It's your own fault you asked for chicken. I wasn't going to give it to you, but you asked." Alex brought a bottle of Deer Park water out of his pocket and chugged half the bottle. Will watched in horrified fascination.

Will would have stared longer, to get his point across, but an appalling screeching sound filled the shop. Apparently, this was normal; no one else even looked up from his or her newspapers. Glancing around to determine the cause of the noise, Will noticed that the "Ye Olde Subwaye" sign was hanging in the window, where it had previously been on the roof. The yellow and green fluorescent letters began to dim and flutter, all of this merely adding to the trauma of Will.

"It fell," he said.

"Fine… Hey, Norma, would you mind fixing the sign? Fido here is OCD, and it's causing him undue trauma, eh Fido?" Alex yawned unceremoniously.

"I never told anyone to fix it." Will sat, staring into space. You could only tell that he'd said anything by the vibrations from the words that lay ringing in the air.

"Then what were you suggesting?" Alex asked, watching Norma's progress up the glass wall of the restaurant. Taking a wad of incandescent pink chewing gum from her mouth, she jammed it onto the roof, pulling the sign up into the gum, imprinting the fork in the Y on the pink gob. Then, she began to blow on it, as if that would help it to dry any faster.

"I was suggesting nothing. I was just stating a fact."

Alex sighed and rubbed his temples. It was at that moment that a waitress (Norma, looking rather windblown) came by with their food.

"Your lemonade sir. Out here on business, I suppose?" Without waiting for a reply, she plowed on, "that last job – we'd've preferred you do it somewhere else, but we are your secret service guards and all, so even if none of us could get out any of those bloody red stains for weeks, we know you mean for the best." Will stood in shock; his jaw dropped. All Norma had to say about it was, "what's his problem?" then carefully placed the rest of their order on the table and continued on her merry way.

Will would have continued staring (despite how rude it was) – Alex on business? Bloody red stains? Worst of all – your lemonade? It could have been too much.

It was too much.

But the order caught his attention instead. Which was not necessarily a good thing.

At first glance, the table seemed almost normal – three drinks sitting on an old-fashioned floral patterned tablecloth – lemonade, tea, and rum. They looked almost quaint, but Will knew that behind their innocent facades lurked the beast that was alcoholism. Will shuddered. Alcoholism… the evils… There, however, sitting silently, almost a beacon through the grimy pane of alcoholism, was the chicken Will had inadvertently ordered.

It looked delicious, tasteful… the only thing in that category from Subway so far. Its skin glistened with grease, littered with sprigs of herbs such as rosemary and crushed basil.

Across from the chicken was Alex's order. Needless to say, Will found it repulsive. The platter, admittedly, was very nice – it depicted a leafy border around a picture of "The Thinker." What it held was another matter.

A raw un-skinned flounder rested upon the plate, its tail lifted in what Will saw as a last form of defense before it was brutally killed by who knows what, its eyes looking into those of Alex, cold and black, covered in their layer of clearish slime.

"Norma, tell Johannes this is his best yet," Alex stated.

"Do you have a raw fish fetish, or something?"

"No, I just love them. Johannes makes the only good fish, though. Everyone else overcooks them. C'est parfait… C'est beau…" Alex began to swoon before his platter, his voice getting higher and higher.

"You need help."

"You need a life, dude. Stop being so… political? If you like flounder, eat flounder. If you like marshmallows, eat them. If you like silkworms, eat them. You're the one who needs help."

"I need to learn Latin." Will stared into space, preferring the Great Beyond to Alex's mass consumption of the raw fish, forkful by forkful. A yellowish translucent ooze came from the fish, Will could tell, even if he was avoiding looking into its lifeless eyes, or those of Alex.

To avoid having to look further upon Alex's palate, Will dug a fork and a knife into the chicken, its beautiful brown skin crinkling under even the slightest of touches from the metal. He cut several misshapen asymmetrical chunks, then set one in his mouth, anticipating the rich taste and spices.

He spat it back out immediately.

Instead of the rich tastes and spices, aromas of pepper and rosemary, a nasty alcoholic flavor filled his mouth. Will spluttered and took a deep gulp of air.

Alex sat stolidly, yet smugly.

"Told you everything is alcoholic."

**See what I mean? Horrid. Nothing like the first two chapters. However gets salesperson attitude you might like my story "Files of a Slytherin Reject" if you like this. I apologize for the long delay, too. You'd think I'd have something to show for it.**


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